Back in Albuquerque

On Christmas Eve, I flew into the Albuquerque airport at 10pm, tired and wanting nothing more than to go to bed. But I went to my Grandma's house, as we do every Christmas Eve. Hugs and handshakes. I found my grandmother and gave her a firm, yet gentle hug. She has never seemed more fragile to me before.

Tamales and beans and red chile on the stove. Biscochitos (sugar and cinnamon covered cookies) and piñones (roasted pine nuts) were my friends once again. It's these small things that really bring things back for me.

Everyone told me that I needed to go to my great aunt Kancho's house, a few houses down the street. Her husband, David, had died, and I had sent a letter to her trying to sum up how I felt about her and her family. She apparently shared it with everyone on their side of the family. Everyone mentioned the letter.

In my grandma's kitchen, I snacked on this and that, having not eaten since 10 am. And while I sat at the table with my parents, my cousins exploded into the door from my aunt Kancho's house, their guitars in hand. Every year, they come and serenade our kitchen with "De Colores" and "Feliz Navidad," and since it was another cousin's birthday, "Las Mañanitas." The strums of the guitar and the gruff voices sank into me. It wasn't until later that I realized in my tiredness that I had forgotten my camera in the car. I would have loved to capture that moment. My dad and uncles had apparently gone to my aunt Kancho's earlier and done tequila shots. Merry Christmas, indeed.

Finally, I went to my aunt Kancho's house with my parents. In their living room, the music of live guitars continued as I sat in their kitchen next to my aunt, her eyes happy to see me, yet sad at the same time. I hugged her and asked, "How are you doing?" I had no other words, but she knew I meant well. The tears were always in her eyes, but never came. She told me stories of my great Uncle David, my grandfather Pedro's brother. She told of bar fights and said that she finally learned when to keep her mouth shut because of his temper.

My mind, of course, went to my play "Eternidad." Loss in a family. Loss of a man who is not altogether perfect, yet means everything to a family. Those moments of pain and fear now being told as something to laugh at and say, "Dad was crazy like that."

As I showered this morning, new thoughts of the play jumped into my brain, tiny moments, tiny moments that opened up bigger truths. And I wrote. For the first time since college, I was able to write here in Albuquerque. And it felt so good. But before I can continue, I need more biscochitos. For energy.